


Holler

by aishahiwatari



Series: Humanity [9]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Butcher, Episode s02e01: The Big Ride, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex, Self-Destruction, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:21:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: Butcher comes back.He goes to get changed. And the others let him. Six men with guns, criminals, horrible characters and Butcher strolls past them like he belongs here.Maybe he does. Maybe those horrible characters are his kin, the people he can relate to the most. Because that dubious honour certainly doesn’t go to any of them. The people who fucking work so goddamn hard.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Series: Humanity [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448371
Comments: 38
Kudos: 230





	Holler

Of course, Hughie thinks about Butcher while he’s gone. He’s responsible for so many changes in Hughie’s life, both the good and the bad, it’s impossible to contemplate anything without him.

Granted, at the moment it’s mostly the bad. Life is- Hughie’s idea of hell, beholden to drug dealers and surrounded by strangers and with endless fucking bass pounding in his head. Nowhere to escape without the risk of being recognised and thrown in jail or in front of whichever member of the Seven feels like they have the greatest claim on ending his life.

He doesn’t sleep much, these days. He lays awake and he thinks, half-dreams, about all of the ways his life has gone wrong.

But mostly about Butcher.

The good times, few and far between as they were. As little as they apparently meant to Butcher, who walked the first change he got, the first time Hughie became anything other than an unquestioning asset to him.

It meant nothing, what they had. Hughie knows that. But he thinks about warm hands; soft kisses; rough, brutal, life-affirming sex.

And he wishes it did.

He rehearses what he’ll say to Butcher if he comes back, a hundred times. There are no words to express the depths of his feelings, to tap into the core of his hurt and rage, and every attempt makes him feel like his heart is being squeezed hard and wrung out, leaves his chest aching for all the lost potential.

“You said you’d choose me,” he says, to the mould-spotted, stained ceiling, and hates himself for ever having believed it.

“I thought you cared,” he grits out, to his own reflection in the dull, grimy mirror, and wonders why he wasn’t worth it.

“I trusted you,” he laments, but he can’t be heard over the music, the shouting voices he doesn’t understand.

Nobody’s listening, anyway.

 _I hate you for leaving,_ he can’t say, and wishes it was the truth.

-

Butcher comes back.

He goes to get changed. And the others let him. Six men with guns, criminals, horrible characters and Butcher strolls past them like he belongs here.

Maybe he does. Maybe those horrible characters are his kin, the people he can relate to the most. Because that dubious honour certainly doesn’t go to any of them. The people who fucking work so goddamn hard.

He’s followed Butcher out of the room without even really considering what he’s doing, and Butcher lets him. Or- he doesn’t slam the door in Hughie’s face, which is about as much as Hughie can hope for, at the moment. Hughie closes it behind him instead, quietly, because if something breaks the silence between them, he feels like he might explode. He’s already breathing faster, and all he’s doing is staring at the door while Butcher moves, behind him.

He could be doing anything. Could be browsing the shelves in the room, just finding a place to put his bag, could be falling to his knees, desperate to apologise. For as long as Hughie waits to turn around, he could be doing all those things and more.

Hughie doesn’t want to know. He’s had enough disappointment for a lifetime. One more could break him, but hope miraculously perseveres, makes him turn.

Butcher is standing still. Looking at him. Carefully blank. Like he has no say in the way any of this goes, like it’s all Hughie’s fucking responsibility, his pain and his life that’s been built around all this, no balance at all.

Hughie rehearsed this moment a hundred times but when he opens his mouth no sound comes out.

He’s furious, heartbroken. Utterly, completely exhausted.

But now he has the opportunity, he can give none of it voice.

Frustrated, he squeezes his eyes shut against all that threatens to escape him in useless, pathetic tears. He will not cry over Billy Butcher, goddamnit.

Humiliation twists at his soul, and yet when he raises a hand to wipe at his aggravatingly damp cheeks, he collides. With Butcher.

Through blurred vision and damp lashes, he stares at Butcher’s face while warm, strong hands cradle the shape of his jaw, and thumbs wipe away his tears.

It’s impossible to convey in a look what Hughie’s feeling in that moment, but the white-hot core of his rage is clear for anyone to see.

And Butcher’s eyes, when the tears have fallen from Hughie’s and he can see them again, are as dark and soulful as ever, and contain such a deep, broken sorrow that Hughie’s breath catches in his throat.

It’s not an apology. It’s not an admission of guilt. It’s not even gratitude for all he’s done. But it’s honest, and real, so much more than anything that ever comes out of Butcher’s fucking mouth.

Hughie’s gaze ticks down at the thought and he hates himself for it, hates the quickening of his heart rate, the diversion of his blood flow that makes him remember how badly he wants, at the worst possible moments.

If he speaks now, Butcher will shout him down and shove him back and walk all over him. There’ll be sarcastic comments and cocky swagger and the kind of fake-it-‘til-you-make-it bravado that’s become ingrained, after so long.

Except the soft, warm mouth that slants over his isn’t any of those things. It’s deep, and sweet, and through it all, Butcher’s thumbs caress his face, like Hughie’s any kind of thing to be treasured and savoured rather than abandoned at the side of the road.

He’s missed the rasp of beard, the particular easy slide of Butcher’s tongue against his. They fit together well, know each other, have done this more times than they’ve had sensible conversations. Hughie doesn’t know Butcher’s birthday, or where he grew up, or what interests him outside of all this, but he’s memorised the taste of his mouth; the line of his jaw; the tenor of his breathing when all he wants is more.

Butcher pulls back, too soon, to look him in the eye, and there’s the apology Hughie’s been waiting for, right there, written across his face and through his very being. It makes Hughie’s heart skip a beat, the intensity of it, and he stares, because that -Butcher being real and open and, Hughie dares to dream, his- is one of the most fantastical, beautiful things he’s ever seen. Like a wondrous piece of art, with astronomical value attributed to its fleeting brevity.

Maybe this is just another one of Butcher’s games. The latest scheme he’s come up with to convince Hughie to do whatever he wants. Maybe he knows Hughie will see in him exactly what he’s so desperate to believe.

Maybe he means it.

Hughie would kiss him again either way. He does, and then is arrested briefly by the incongruous sensation of his hand finding athletic clothes instead of an appalling shirt or dramatic trench coat. Somehow he communicates his displeasure, and then between them they’re stripping Butcher out of his jacket, only the easy slide of a zip between Hughie and the glorious expanse of Butcher’s chest.

Despite everything, he’s missed this.

Because of everything, he wants.

There is one thing to be said for loose sweatpants. With minimal resistance from clothing, and abject encouragement from Butcher, who’s kissing him like it’s the first or last time ever, Hughie can slide his hand down beneath fabric and cradle the hot, plumping shape of Butcher’s cock. His touch makes Butcher shudder and tremble, pant helplessly into Hughie’s mouth. All his power gone, and all Hughie had to do was touch him.

He thinks this is how he used to be, for Butcher. Back when he was soft and fragile, before he realised how deep this whole thing went, how it could consume his life if he let it.

Hughie wonders how Butcher can trust him, but he stared into Hughie’s eyes and saw everything he was feeling so maybe Hughie never intended to hurt him. Even if he really, really wanted to.

Maybe he wants to want to. Later, they’ll hurl abuse and insults and arguments. Right now, all he can think about is having Butcher fall apart beneath him. There’s no room for anything else. So he squeezes tighter, and then he strokes, and Butcher’s hands slide into his hair as he pants, breathing ragged, all while drinking Hughie in like he’s his source of air.

He can see why Butcher found this feeling intoxicating before. It’s heady, to have control or someone usually so dominant and defensive. Whether this is penance, or guilt, or just characteristically poor decision-making, Hughie wants more. Craves it, like what thrums through his veins is the power to take, rather than the weak, watery blood that’s barely sustained him so far.

By some small miracle or Butcher’s conscious choice, there’s a bed in the room. When Hughie shoves Butcher back, he falls onto it with a clang and screech of springs, and he looks up. So gorgeous he defies description; chest heaving; strong arms wrapped in lean muscle; lips pink and swollen, Butcher’s eyes say he’d let Hughie hurt him in this moment. He’s kicking his boots off, and there’s a tempting, vulnerable bulge in his sweats while Hughie, still fully dressed, is only pressing against his zipper.

The shift in their power balance makes Hughie thrill, but what’s surging up inside of him isn’t the rage, or fury, or aggression he expected. In the face of such open submission, given so willingly, no words passed between them, just naked emotion-

Hughie can do nothing but protect.

He’ll work out his issues later, he promises himself. He’ll work them out real fucking good, with the shouting and threats of violence that surround and envelop him now. He’ll get his say, and Butcher will pretend not to listen, and Hughie will feel heard but not understood then blame it on his own ineptitude.

But there was a part of him that thought Butcher was dead, and he pushed it down hard because he couldn’t stand the idea. He’s more capable than he’s ever been, because he’s a part of this. Being around Butcher makes him feel stronger, even if everything he tries to do with that newfound confidence comes out sideways.

They could die tomorrow. It happens so easily. Or they might be torn apart by circumstance, never to see each other again.

But no matter what happens, they’ll always have this.

Hughie can lean down and pull on the ankles of Butcher’s pants, and they slide right off, Butcher only grimacing briefly at the uncomfortable catch of the waistband on his jutting cock, his elbows holding his weight so he can be stripped, left naked and sprawling.

Hughie doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look his fill of this gorgeous man, but he takes a few moments, makes Butcher shudder under the intensity of his gaze. Memorises every curve, every line, every jut of bone and the glorious length of his cock that twitches under scrutiny. Hughie wishes he could paint, that he could take a photo and set it as his phone background to enjoy permanently. In his increasingly unrealistic contemplations, he wants to imprison Butcher in his bed, naked, to await him.

It would never work, but fuck is it a pleasant thought.

Hughie’s urges are darker than they used to be. He’s a product of his environment.

But when he kicks off his sneakers, strips off his clothes and crawls over Butcher to kiss him and caress his skin back into warmth, all he can think about is the comfort he finds in their collision. He’s not unaffected by all they’ve done so far, of course, but Butcher rolling his hips, grinding up against his stomach gets him the rest of the way.

They kiss, and Butcher’s touch, hands smoothing covetously down Hughie’s spine, splaying over the juts of his hips, toying with the soft hair at the nape of his neck, is so gentle and all-consuming that Hughie doesn’t notice him moving, reaching up to where he set his bag, like Butcher could possibly have known this would happen, exactly like this.

He’s trailing his fingers through Butcher’s beard, drinking in the taste of him, sucking on his tongue when Butcher presses a tube of lube into his hand and Hughie pulls back with a gasp.

He looks between that tube and Butcher’s face a probably comical number of times. This is big. He’s never had control of this before, was bound and by all accounts suffering through punishment the last time he was the one doing the penetrating. He wants to ask Butcher if he’s sure, but he already knows what his stubborn certainty looks like. Butcher’s made up his mind.

And fuck, when Hughie kneels back with Butcher’s long legs splayed around him, he wants with an intensity that frightens him. His hands shake as he strokes the tender insides of strong thighs, as he slicks his fingers, but Butcher lays back, utterly relaxed. Trusting. Or like, if Hughie hurt him, split him open and made him bleed, worked to bring him to screaming, he wouldn’t even mind.

Whether he’s being manipulated or not, Hughie’s never felt less capable of violence in his life.

He’s never touched here, he realises, when he presses beneath the delicate hang of Butcher’s balls to the hot furl of his hole. Last time, Butcher prepared himself. He’s never allowed Hughie to do this.

But a lot’s changed for both of them, and Butcher is so comfortable, unresisting, that Hughie’s the one who gasps when one finger slides right in, slicked as it is, enveloped by silken, impossible heat. Butcher just drops his head back against the bed and gives himself over to sensation, breathes deep, jaw slackening and eyes rolling back when Hughie eases one finger out then cautiously delves in with two.

He remembers Butcher doing this, how he pushed himself hard and seemed to savour the pain as much as the pleasure. Hughie knows well that the two sensations reflect and amplify one another, has never had to figure out how best to find the balance but with his fingers buried, clutched tight, he’s struck with desire. He leans down, an elbow on the bed to support himself as he touches his lips to the underside of Butcher’s cock, savouring the feel of it, the taste and the scent of him as much as he does the soft hitch in Butcher’s breathing.

It feels like his whole body ripples around Hughie, and he’s just so soft inside, and as Hughie kisses his way upwards to distract from his gluttonous exploration of Butcher’s most vulnerable place, fingers twisting, Butcher just lifts his arms to rest them above his head, opens himself up still further.

Hughie laps and then suckles wetly, gently, at the head of his cock to feel him writhe, utterly defenceless, not a single word or touch or instant of tension to give Hughie a reason to stop.

Butcher squirms around three fingers, slim as Hughie’s are, breathing ragged, but Hughie’s careful, patient, satisfied for the moment to feel Butcher’s pulse pounding in the muscle wrapped around him and against his tongue. He has to do this right; Butcher is broken, somehow, and self-destructive, but Hughie wants him back when he’s done, no matter how terrible an idea that might be. There’s no space in this room, this time for anything but what he selfishly, unrealistically wants, and what Butcher is unequivocally telling him he needs.

There’s a moment, when Hughie’s kneeling up again, slicked cock in hand, positioning himself to slide into the hot, silken softness of this very complicated man, where he nearly panics. Something deep inside of him tells him he can’t possibly deserve this, that Butcher is too strong for it, somehow, his protective walls cracked but not yet broken enough to truly allow Hughie this honour.

He’s restored by communication. Until then, Butcher has been lax, unresisting, basking in sensation but not actively encouraging it. Despite all they’ve been through, Hughie needs to know he wants this, rather than just allowing it, before he can go on.

Butcher gives him that and more; a soft, lazy smile; the warm, comforting wrap of his arms around Hughie’s shoulders; the slow, somnolent kiss he bestows, deep and wet, containing multitudes. He brings Hughie in close, drowns him in sensation and renders him a slave to his instincts, mouth falling open as Hughie slides hotly, blissfully home.

Hughie sees him in that moment, unrestrainedly pleasured and euphoric with it, something in his heart cracking at the realisation that this is his, alone. Oh, he thinks, and whatever shows on his face makes Butcher squeeze his eyes shut to avoid seeing it.

Hughie’s never seen him turn away from the bad, only the good he doesn’t believe he deserves, so he rolls his hips and devotes himself to making Butcher feel, instead.

He’s glorious in his pleasure, skin flushed and damp, no longer contained, his movements governed only by an intrinsic grace and his building desire. Hughie’s never been entrusted with a gift of such significance before, and he intends to both earn and present it, casts all but the base thoughts of his own need aside. He searches for that spot, that angle that makes the rhythm of Butcher’s breathing crack and shudder, all the while sliding through the hot, tight sheath of clustered nerve endings that threatens to be his ruin and urges Butcher to greater heights.

Fuck, Hughie hopes he remembers this, knows he won’t, that it will fade to a cacophonous mess of images and feelings and sensations he forever seeks to repeat. Maybe this is Butcher’s plan, to show him all they can be, to keep him searching for this and only ever receiving it at Butcher’s will.

The intensity of the moment seeks to convince Hughie he’s okay with that.

Hughie never wants it to end, but Butcher’s indulgence in his own vulnerability is his downfall. It’s clear he loves this, when he allows himself to, no matter the harsh words behind which he usually hides and the image he presents. Maybe nobody’s ever been able to do this for him, before.

Whatever the reasons, motivations, feelings behind it all, Butcher comes without a touch to his cock beyond the bounce of it against his stomach, whole body shuddering, his release long and decadent and plentiful.

Hughie has never felt like he might be able to love this man, except in this moment.

Fortunately, his words catch in his throat and he’s far enough from his own release that he needs to work for it, can distract himself from Butcher’s overstimulated breathlessness, the encouragement and greed in his eyes. He wants Hughie to come, wants him, reaches up to clumsily caress his cheek with a thumb, so tenderly Hughie wonders if he’s started crying again.

He hasn’t, but he sobs when he comes, emptying himself and filling Butcher, and he’s barely through it when Butcher’s kissing him again, to taste him or stop the inevitability of words or both.

Hughie’s all-too happy to let him, panting and overwhelmed, basking in the aftermath of hard work and tempestuous emotion, gradually leaning more of his weight onto Butcher until he’s eased off to the side, softening cock slipping free with an abject sensation of loss Hughie can’t hope to rationalise.

Their kiss is broken only for Butcher to search his expression for something it’s not clear if he finds. Either way, he sighs, hangs his head for a moment, then there’s one last soft, sweet press of lips and he rolls onto his back with a grimace and huffing sound for the sensations that movement induces.

They’re still so close, the bed too small for them to be anything else, but the distance between them widens with every passing moment. Hughie can practically see the walls building up as Butcher prepares to go out there, to face reality and the others, and Hughie himself, once he regains the ability to talk.

Hughie’s still so fucking angry, he realises. He can feel it simmering inside him but he knows this is not the time or the space.

He can’t ask for more, but with a surge of confidence or recklessness he reaches out, takes hold of Butcher’s jaw and draws him into a bruising, unforgiving press of mouths, clash of teeth that can barely be called a kiss. Butcher returns it, snarling, with more fight than submission, familiar and real, and when it stops, and they look at each other, something passes between them. And he nods, once.

So they have this. They will continue to have it, through all their fucked-up lives can throw at them. For now, it has to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: there are spoilers for later episodes in the comments.


End file.
